Chapter 15a

National Records Building
July 2, 1989

The meeting with Crow was scheduled for eleven o'clock that morning since that was the best time to catch Matt and Coop both awake and in a relatively sober state of being. Jake, who was not looking forward to the subject of the meeting in any way, shape, or form, nevertheless showed up forty-five minutes early. He had a few items that fell under the umbrella of "personal business" to take care of while he was in the building.

Since he was Jake Kingsley, lead singer of National's most popular and profitable band, he was able to walk past the security guards who controlled access to the elevators without so much as an ID check. They didn't bother checking to see if he had an appointment or even asking where in the building he was going. They simply wished him a nice day and opened the bulletproof glass door at the end of the lobby.

Instead of catching an up elevator to Crow's office, Jake caught a down elevator and rode to the basement recording and mixing studio — a place he had spent hundreds upon hundreds of hours in during his career, a place whose layout he knew as well as his own house. He walked down two hallways, descended a set of stairs to a lower level, and finally came to a door labeled MIXING ROOM D. Inside he found a sterile room full of multi-million dollar audio equipment that included complex mixing boards and multiple reel-to-reel tape machines. Three technicians sat at various places around the room. Jake knew two of them on a first name basis, the other on nodding acquaintance. Sitting at the main mixing board were Nerdly and his fiancée, Sharon. They were dressed identically in loose-fitting khaki shorts and oversized polo shirts. Sitting next to the happy couple was a moderately dark-skinned black man wearing faded jeans and a sleeveless shirt that showed off his muscular arms. A large gold hoop dangled from his left ear and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses sat perched atop his nose. Jake had never seen a picture of Bigg G before, but since he'd specifically been told to come to this studio at this time in order to meet him, had to assume that Bigg G was who he was looking at.

"Jake," Nerdly said with a nod when he spotted him. He took the headphones off and set them on the table next to him. "Glad you could come. How are they hanging on this day?"

"High and tight," Jake told him.

"Yes," Nerdly agreed. "I can understand how the upcoming confrontation would lead to that phenomenon. I'm suffering from a similar malady myself."

The black man, who had turned toward Jake and taken off his headphones, burst out laughing. "Awww man," he said, shaking his head in amusement. "I just love to listen to what comes out of your mouth, Nerdly."

"Did I say something amusing?" Nerdly asked, confused.

"Never mind," the black man said, standing up. He was just a hair taller than Jake. He held out his right hand. "It's nice to meet you, Jake. I'm Bigg G."

Jake shook with him. "So I finally meet you," he said. "What do your friends call you? Bigg or G?"

"They usually call me Gordon," he said.

"Gordon?"

Gordon shrugged. "It's my given name," he said. "Gordon Paladay. I figured I'd sell a few more records if I went by Bigg G."

"Yeah," Jake said. "I suppose you might have a point there."

Gordon told Jake he enjoyed listening to his music. Jake, unfortunately, was unable to return the sentiment. He had never heard a Bigg G tune before. Gordon said he understood, that rap wasn't everyone's cup of tea.

"I've been meaning to give you a listen," Jake told him. "Nerdly's had nothing but good things to say about your music."

"Nerdly's been a big help with this last album," Gordon said. "He knows this mixing shit better than some of these homeys been working here for fifteen years. And he's been giving us all this help for free."

"I like to mix," Nerdly said, obviously pleased with the praise.

"And he's a funny motherfucker too," Gordon said with a chuckle. "I could listen to his ass all day long and never get tired of it. I want to see if I can get him an invite to speak at this year's rap music awards. He'll bring down the fuckin' house."

Jake laughed. "That he would," he agreed.

Nerdly had a look of puzzlement on his face. "I'd be happy to speak a few words at the awards ceremony," he said. "But I don't quite understand what insights I would be able to share with the rap music community that would hold such interest to them."

"Trust me, Nerdly," Gordon said. "It won't matter what you talk about. They'd fuckin' love it."

"Well... if you say so," Nerdly said.

"I do," Gordon said. "I really do." He turned to Jake. "So, I hear you got a couple of kids who want my autograph."

"Yep," Jake agreed. "My housekeeper's grandkids have been pestering me to get one for them for months. They're good kids so I told them I'd see what I can do."

"Don't they want your autograph?" Gordon asked.

"Naw, they don't care about me," Jake said. "I'm just the guy who lets 'em swim in his pool and who might be able to score them a Bigg G autograph."

"They seem like good kids all right," Gordon said with a grin. "I'll be happy to sign something for them. What do they want?"

"You got any publicity shots on you?" Jake asked.

"Not currently," he said. "I can probably go upstairs and dig a couple up from the promotions department."

"That might work," Jake said thoughtfully. "I have a better idea, if you're down with it."

"Lay it on me," Gordon said.

"They got you staying in a leased condo with some National Records spy who doubles as a servant, right?"

Gordon barked out a sharp, resentful laugh. "It sound like you been through this."

"I have," Jake said. "Why don't you come over to my pad after you're done here tonight? The kids will be there and they can meet you. In return, my housekeeper will serve you a genuine home-cooked meal. I believe she told me she was doing up some tacos tonight."

Gordon liked that idea. "Tacos huh? You mean, like, real tacos?"

"As real as they get," Jake said.

"And she's a good cook?"

"That's one of the reasons I hired her," Jake said.

"I'm in," Gordon said. "That asshole they got cooking for me is some flaming faggot who's always making weird shit like rabbits and geese and fuckin' snails."

"His name isn't Manny, is it?" Jake asked.

"Yeah," Gordon said. "It is. How'd you know?"

"Long story," Jake told him with a laugh. "How do they get you here and back? Limo service?"

"Nope," he said. "They got me a Mercedes 500E coupe — leased, of course, and coming out of my recoupables."

"No shit?" Jake said. "When I first started they threw a shitfit about me having my own car. It gave me more freedom than they wanted. Now they're leasing the car for you?"

"They ain't doin' it out of the kindness of their hearts," Gordon said. "It's an image thing. People expect to see a famous brother with his own ride so they got me one. They charge me extra if I go over a hundred miles a week though, and they threaten to cut off my allowance if I go someplace they don't want me going with it."

"Like to my pad?" Jake asked.

"I'm sure they won't be down with that," Gordon agreed. "You is considered a bad influence on other musicians."

Jake chuckled. "I suppose I am at that," he said. "So are you gonna get in trouble for coming over?"

"Shee-it," Gordon scoffed. "Trouble is my middle name."

"I thought you said it was Albert," Nerdly said, causing Jake to crack up and Gordon to look acutely embarrassed.

Jake wrote down his address and basic directions for Gordon and told him he was looking forward to the visit. Nerdly, meanwhile, held a brief conversation with Sharon regarding the final instructions for the low-end bass levels they were working on. She agreed with most of what he said but did have a few points of contention to offer. Gordon then jumped in with a few points of his own. Finally they reached a shaky consensus on the matter, enough that Nerdly felt safe leaving them for an hour or so.

Jake said goodbye to Sharon and Gordon and headed for the exit. Nerdly trailed behind him. They made their way back to the elevators and pushed the up button. While they waited, Nerdly began to chew on his fingernails.

"Remember," Jake told him. "We stick to our guns on this, no matter how much he threatens and postures."

"Stick to our guns," Nerdly agreed.

By the time they reached Crow's office they were still more than twenty minutes early. Crow's secretary greeted the two musicians and told them to go right in.

"Are you sure?" Jake asked. "The last time we busted in on him unexpectedly he was getting his knob polished by Mikey Garcia."

The secretary blushed a little. "I assure you, he's alone in there this time," she told them. "And I also buzzed him to let him know you were here when I saw you in the outer office."

"Okay then," Jake said. "If you're sure it's safe."

They walked in. It was safe. Crow was sitting behind his desk, seemingly doing some actual paperwork of some sort although Jake wasn't quite sure what sort of actual paperwork someone like Crow would have. He greeted them warmly but cautiously as he waved them to seats in front of his desk.

"You're early, guys," he said.

"I came a little early to meet Bigg G," Jake said. "Nerdly here was kind enough to introduce me to him."

Crow nodded. "He's a nice enough guy... you know... for a nigger."

Jake rolled his eyes. "That's quite some praise, Steve," he said. "I'm sure he'd be quite pleased to hear that from your lips."

Crow shrugged. "He's not in my department and I try not to mingle with people not in my department."

"Except for Mikey Garcia, right?" Jake asked with a smile.

Crow chose to ignore this remark. "I've never quite understood why people like that rap shit anyway. It sounds like a bunch of noise to me." He shrugged again. "Oh well. It makes us a lot of money."

"And that's what it's all about, right?" Jake asked.

"Exactly," Crow said, either missing Jake's sarcastic tone or ignoring it. "So, tell me something, gentlemen. Is the subject of this meeting what I'm afraid it is?"

"That depends on what you're afraid it is," Jake said.

"Well... let's see," Crow said. "You called Pauline, Nerdly, Matt, and Coop for a meeting with me but you specifically excluded both Charlie and Darren. That kind of implies that Charlie and/or Darren are to be the subject of the discussion at hand."

Jake and Nerdly looked at each other. "We'd rather not say until the others get here," Jake said.

Crow sighed, shaking his head in consternation. "I knew it," he said. "I knew that somehow you guys were going to piss on my tranquility again."

"Steve..." Jake started.

"I am not going to allow a dispute to disrupt the timeline for the next album," Crow warned. "I'm telling you this right here and now, and you guys had better take heed of my words."

"Like I said, Steve," Jake said. "Why don't we wait until everyone gets here before we start yelling at each other? There will be plenty of time for that later."

Crow sighed again. "I suppose," he said. "You guys want something to drink?"

They both asked for non-alcoholic drinks (Jake, iced tea with a lemon slice, Nerdly, a virgin strawberry daiquiri with a banana slice). Crow got his secretary on the intercom and passed the order along. She promised the beverages would be there in less than five minutes. While they waited, Jake brought up the subject he really wanted to discuss. He had received the resume, news clippings, and demo tape from Brainwash almost two weeks ago. Out of his own pocket he had made ten copies of everything, including the tape itself. One set he had given to Crow, telling him he thought they were a great band with huge money-making potential. Crow had promised to look into the packet and give the tape a listen.

"So," he said to Crow now, "have you had a chance to go over that material I gave you on Brainwash?"

Crow made a sour face. "I went over it as much as I needed to," he said. "You really should leave new artist development to the NAD department, Jake."

"You didn't like them?" Jake asked, surprised. He himself liked them so much he had taken to listening to a copy of their demo tape in his car. They really did make some good music.

"Nothing to like about them," Crow said. "They are most definitely not what we're looking for in a new artist — now, or at any other time."

"Why in the hell not?" Jake asked. "What's wrong with them?

"What's wrong with them?" Crow asked incredulously. "Jesus Christ, Jake. How could you seriously ask me that? The guys in that group all look like friggin' accountants, one of the girls looks like a dyke, and the other girl is a fat cow."

"Fat?" Jake said. "Marcie Scanlon is not fat. She's full-bodied, voluptuous maybe, but I certainly wouldn't call her fat."

"I would," Crow said. "And so would much of America. She's a goddamn moose. The camera would make her look even fatter."

"Steve," Jake said, "did you even listen to the tape or did you base your entire judgment on the band's photos?"

"I didn't need to listen to the tape," Crow said. "There's no way in hell a band with a fat chick, a trio of nerds, and a dyke on lead guitar is going to make it in this industry. They could be Led Zepplin resurrected and no one would care."

"I think you're wrong about that," Jake said. "Dead wrong."

"You're entitled to your opinion," Crow allowed, "but keep in mind that I'm an artist and repertoire specialist who also did five years in the NAD department. I hardly think you're as qualified to judge music."

"Yes," Jake said, "I am just a musician after all — one who is a primary member of your record company's best selling band of the last two decades."

"Exactly," Crow said, once again completely missing or disregarding Jake's sarcasm.

"Steve," Jake said, putting a little pleading into his voice. "Will you just listen to the tape once? As a favor to me?"

"Jake, I respect you... really, I do. You are a great musician — one of the best I've ever heard — and I'll even admit that you have good instincts for what a music consumer wants to listen to. But you're also very linear in your assessments. You think it's all about the sound when that's really not the truth anymore. I'm telling you as straightforward as I can, it doesn't matter what these Brainwash freaks sound like. It doesn't matter how good their music is when considered on its own merits. You have to have a certain look, a certain style to sell albums and they simply don't have it. Everything about them is wrong. Multiple lead singers of mixed sexes? That shit went out with Fleetwood Mac. Bands that do a mixture of hard rock and easy-listening love ballads? That shit went out with The Eagles."

"Steve," Jake said patiently, "Fleetwood Mac and The Eagles are two of the best-selling bands of all time. Don't you think that's at least partly because the formula works? Because they appeal to a broad stretch of the demographics?"

"It worked in the seventies," Crow said. "We're almost in the nineties here, remember? Tastes have changed. They've been shaped by MTV and the medium of the music video. No one wants to just sit down and listen to music anymore. They want to experience it, to revel in it, to become immersed in it, not just the music itself — the quality of the recording is now almost secondary in importance — but in the story and the look of the band. They want to know who the people who make the music are and they want to be attracted to these people, to feel as if they are someone they'd like to know, to hang out with. And, in order for that to occur, the band has to look good first and foremost and project a favorable image to their target demographic. Your Brainwash friends lose on all of these counts. And then there's the big taboo they have going for them. Even if they were attractive enough to photograph well — which they are not — there is no way in hell anyone would ever take them seriously because their lead guitarist is a girl."

"She's a damn good guitarist," Jake said. "If you'd just listen..."

"Jake, it doesn't matter!" Crow said, raising his voice in frustration. "She could be a combination of Matt Tisdale, Eric Clapton, and Eddie Van Halen and she would still never be respected for it. A female lead guitarist for a band with men in it is unprecedented. Two-thirds of the people would refuse to acknowledge that she was good, a sixth would acknowledge it but would say it was a gimmick, that some male guitarist was actually the one playing the tracks for her, and the remaining one sixth, the ones who would actually like her and believe that she was really the one playing, they would be so degraded by the other five fifths that they wouldn't dare share their opinion with anyone."

"The fans in New England seem to respect her well enough," Jake pointed out. "They sell out every venue they're booked in and they're pulling down $750 a show — not much by our standards, but a goddamn fortune for a simple club band."

This argument did not impress Crow in the least. "How a particular municipality feels about a band that plays in their bars and how that same band would be accepted nationally in a recorded and video medium are two very different things," he said.

"I don't think they are," Jake said.

"And that's why you are the musician and I am the National Records A&R rep," Crow said.

Jake didn't push the issue any further. He had already figured out that trying to convince Crow that Brainwash had album sales potential would be like trying to convince Jerry Falwell that Hustler wasn't such a bad publication. And, unfortunately for Brainwash, Crow's opinion would hardly be unique among the rest of National's movers and shakers, or, in fact, among any other record company's movers and shakers.

Nerdly, seeing that Jake's issue had been run into the ground, now jumped in with his issue of the month. It had to do with replacing the traditional microphones the band had used on all previous tours with more modern wireless mics. National was reluctant to authorize this expense since it was just that: an expense. True, the equipment supplier would pick up a good portion of the cost in exchange for an endorsement, and true, the band itself would contractually pick up half of what was left, but this would still leave National responsible for something in the neighborhood of ten thousand dollars. Ten grand was a mere pittance to a corporation that pulled in hundreds of millions in profit every year, but it was something they were willing to fight tooth and nail over.